


Points of Engagement

by LadyBergamot



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: A little angst, After Revelations, Crush, Elise is here for two seconds lol, F/M, Fatesmas, Fatesmas Secret Santa, Fluff, Holidays, Pining, Post-Game, Romance, a surprise tool we'll need later, corriander - Freeform, kamarx, revelations ending, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28209717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBergamot/pseuds/LadyBergamot
Summary: 'Engagement (n) - when the opponents' blades come into contact, often as a prelude to an attack. See also 'engagement' (n), an agreement to be betrothed or married.'After the war, Corrin and Xander left some things unresolved. Fortunately, the holidays present them with another chance to end things the way they always wanted.
Relationships: Marx | Xander/My Unit | Kamui | Corrin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Points of Engagement

**Author's Note:**

> The setting is after Revelations takes place. Corrin is Queen of Valla, and Xander is King of Nohr.

Corrin timidly presses the ivory key, hoping the piano has remained in tune through years of neglect.

“Well?” Next to her, an overeager Elise assesses the sound. Her nose wrinkles when the note rings a little flat. Corrin presses down for a chord to make sure, only to be disappointed by the persistent flatness of the notes.

“It’s been years since this piano was last used” she says, smiling to diminish the blow. “I’m sorry Elise, I don’t think it’s in tune for playing.” Corrin’s hands fidget nervously on her skirt. She’s only been back in Nohr for several hours, and already she’s come across _some_ obstacles.

The disappointment is palpable in the younger woman’s expression, who, up until that point, had been looking forward to the upcoming festivities with gumption.

“Aw, so no music?” Elise half-whines her request, hoping for a more favorable answer.

With a shake of her head, Corrin sighs. “Not unless you want to hear out-of-tune music.”

“Oh, but Corrin!” the younger princess protests, both hands now clutching at Corrin’s sleeve. “We haven’t gathered like this since before the war! And now that Xander’s king, and you’re off being queen in another country, I’ve barely been able to see you two! I thought maybe—… If you played the piano, then…”

Corrin knows. She understands. This holiday season is the first they’ll be spending together as a family since achieving peace, but, like all good things, it comes at a cost. One of them, much to Elise’s dismay, is Corrin’s departure from the Nohrian family and into Valla as the forgotten kingdom’s newest queen.

“Don’t worry,” she cuts in, laying a gentle hand on Elise’s shoulder. “I’ll ask someone to tune it before the party.” She flashes a smile, and in that moment all the troubles plaguing Elise melts with its warmth. “I promise Elise,” she adds, “I’ll play a song with you before the night’s over.”

“Oh Corrin!” Elise exclaims. She jumps up from the piano bench and drags her one-time sister back to the parlor floor. “I’ll practice my violin right now! We can finally do a duet together. I’m so excited!”

“Elise wait!”

Yet Elise doesn’t hear her. She is already out the door, listing her plans for even more duets and performances while Corrin is left in the parlor — unsure if she really is free to walk around a home that is no longer (or perhaps never has been) hers.

Well, she isn’t alone, exactly. Gliding through the room, maids and butlers are busy arranging the hall, laying out cutlery, and dusting the furnishings. It’s strange, to be sure. When she thinks of Nohr — of _home_ — she thinks of the musty walls of the Northern Fortress; the cracks from the cool slabs of stone; the long and empty corridors filled with nothing but echoes. This, she decides, is livelier, and the difference alone makes it too unfamiliar for comfort. Ambling to the fireplace, she relishes the only source of warmth to save her from the cold winter season.

Corrin takes the moment to gather her bearings. Her hand digs into her waistcoat pocket, rummaging for its contents out of habit. A sigh of relief rolls through her shoulders when her fingers wrap around the hard edges of the trinket. _Still there_ , she says quietly to herself.

“You’re here.”

She doesn’t expect his voice. In fact, she distinctly remembers being warned that he would be too busy; that he would join the family later in the evening. Corrin takes a moment to glance out the window, making sure that it is indeed daylight before she turns to face Xander after so many months apart.

“Xander,” she blurts out, realizing too late that saying his name point blank isn’t exactly a proper greeting. Corrin lowers her head, more out of embarrassment than deference. She manages a slight curtsy before she quickly hides her hands behind the train of her skirt.

To her surprise, Xander tenses with a frown. He looks surprisingly casual and clean, donning the usual tunic-and-waistcoat nobles often wear outside of official appearances. “You are a queen,” he sternly reminds her. “You shouldn’t bow to me.”

“Oh, r-right.” Flustered, Corrin straightens her posture before her body clams up with mortification.

Being queen of a new kingdom hasn’t exactly changed things, apparently. Standing before Xander makes it crystal clear: she’s still that little girl locked in a tower, meekly greeting her older brother for his unexpected but nevertheless welcome visits.

 _‘Older brother_.’ The phrase hangs lingers and stops up the air like a knot in her throat. She’s nervous, and the tremor in her hands (still hidden behind her waistcoat) isn’t doing her any favors. Her mind drifts once more to the box in her pocket, and for a moment she senses a faint glimmer of hope that, in the end, more things between them can change.

“I—… I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon,” she sputters out, struggling to keep her composure when (to her embarrassment) he steps closer.

Xander, for his part, seems none the wiser. “I came here as soon as I could,” he replies. He tacks on a tired smile, and before long Corrin feels her own anxious hands relaxing their grip.

An awkward hush befalls the pair as more servants pass through, bowing hurriedly while they dash to the next chore. They exchange bashful glances, only to avert their gaze whenever another maid rushes past them. Corrin laughs nervously to herself, somewhat miffed at their failed attempts to start conversation.

Somehow (and she can’t quite put a finger on it), something feels off. Perhaps it’s in Xander’s unwillingness to maintain eye contact, or it’s her uncharacteristic and untimely reticence, but their reunion is strangely subdued for two people who should be having a joyous reunion. At least _she_ should be, Corrin thinks. Her mind races back to memories of how quickly Xander would dispense with greetings and traveling gear whenever he visited the Northern Fortress. A simple ‘hello’ from her, and the two of them would pick up the strands of the previous month’s conversation — as if no time had passed at all in his absence. Back then, reunions were easy. Back then, Corrin had a safer and more assured spot as Xander’s family.

But now? With no words or prospect of training in sight, she is at a loss. What strands can she possibly pick up?

“It’s normally quieter around here, but the servants are still busy with preparations,” he says suddenly, cutting through her daze. He nods absentmindedly at the hubbub around them before gesturing for her to follow him.

She follows mutely behind him from the fireplace and closer to a more secluded alcove. There, a window-curtain remains free of the holiday mirth and decor. Corrin absentmindedly studies Tyrian purple tapestry, its fabric glowing with a rich velvety sheen. The entire alcove is lavishly furnished for its humbler purpose, and such trappings were never really seen in the fortress she once called home.

“Right, I forgot,” he says suddenly, catching her gaze. “You’ve never been here before.” His tone is matter-of-fact. Like a statement on the weather, Xander broaches the uncomfortable truth with such disarming candor.

Corrin can only manage to repeat, “Yes, that’s right,” before newfound embarrassment sets in. Her hands fly back to her sides, wary of his observations. “I’m glad to finally see it,” she adds, feigning meek enthusiasm. “I’ve always wondered what the royal villa is like, especially during the holidays. Elise used to talk so much about the food and decorations…” Her voice tapers down with more warmth now that the memories are flooding back. She steps a bit closer as she mutters, softly this time, “I’ve heard so much about the music and games too. You must have had so much fun together.”

There’s a crease on Xander’s brow — a detectable trace of pity in his expression. He doesn’t mean it, of course. He never was one for looking down on others, but in that moment, Corrin can see the corners of his mouth twitch with regret.

“Corrin…” His face contorts with an unspoken apology.

“Please, I didn’t mean anything by it!” she reassures him, mildly panicked now that she may have dampened the mood. “I’m grateful I get to see it now…”

“I see,” he responds, somewhat relaxing his troubled expression. “I remember coming back to the fortress after the holidays. You used to jump all over your room when we brought presents.”

The shameful reminder of her childhood antics makes Corrin blush. “Xander…” she chides him with a playful wince. Then, looking askance, she juts out her lip into a timid pout. “I don’t remember being _that_ troublesome.”

“Not at all. In fact, it was what I waited for the most.” He minces no words — that much is true, and his expression changes as swiftly, smiling quietly to himself now that they have the better intimacy of the alcove to themselves. “Camilla, Leo, Elise… We all wanted to open presents with you. Picking them out was only part of the tradition.”

“ _You_? Pick out presents?” The notion brings a giggle to her lips, and she quickly fans a coy hand over her mouth to hide it. “I don’t know why, but to imagine you browsing stalls in a local market…”

“What of it?” he asks, baffled. Incredulity deepens the crease between his brows when he asks, “Is it so strange that I ran my own errands?”

Yet his testy reaction only seems to embolden Corrin, who’s given up her pensiveness for a more cheerful demeanor. Her voice trails with more laughter, and she fails to stifle it despite the ever-constant encroachment of servants around them.

“Besides,” he continues, relaxing with recollection, “I knew one day I would be too busy to do such things myself. So I made sure to pick out your presents.” Something of a subtle sigh escapes through his lips, revealing what Corrin has always known about him. Xander is nowhere near as stern as he pretends to be. His spirits lift whenever the nostalgic mood strikes, and she’s glad that at least _this_ part of him hasn’t changed.

He shifts his posture, fixing his gaze elsewhere as he says with softer tones, “At least, you’re enjoying yourself. That’s good.”

“Hm? Why wouldn’t I be?” Corrin tilts her head at such a puzzling remark.

Xander turns back to her, his smile turning into a subtle smirk. “You looked lost earlier. I was worried something may have happened.”

Corrin reddens once more. _‘He caught me sulking by the fireplace_.’ The thought mortifies her, and she does her best to mask her dumbfounded look. She clears her throat to smooth away the awkwardness and insists, “Nothing is wrong. I’m just a bit overwhelmed… A lot has happened since then.”

‘Then.’ It’s the only word that can describe the world-saving journey they all undertook. Every morning since, she would wake up and wonder if the war, Valla, and their hard-earned peace were all nothing more than a sweet and tantalizing dream. Sitting on the cushion by the window curtain, Corirn lets out a tired sigh. Her fingers fiddle with the ruched trappings of her dress skirt. “I was worried things might be different now, after all…”

Her eyes peer upward, piqued and somewhat anxious to assess how her words would land.

Xander makes a surly face like he’s about to argue. Not that he doesn’t want to disagree, or that the sentiment — that she’s still family; that she’s every bit as part of them as they are to her — has changed simply because she has another family and another kingdom to spare. But he finds difficulty disproving the matter at hand: things _have_ changed. The upgrade from prince to king, after all, is a lesson Xander is still learning.

Yet nothing prepares Xander for this moment. What can he say to the girl who used to look to him for answers? He wants to say, ‘nothing has changed,’ but deep in his heart, he knows that would be a lie. For one, she isn’t a girl anymore. Two, they can no longer pretend to be family. At least, not in the way _he’s_ been pretending for so many years.

His mouth curls with a hardened grimace as he opts for a half-hearted affirmation. “Yes they are,” he replies. A tentative silence follows while Xander simmers in his thoughts.

In that moment Corrin worries that this small admission of her doubts have actually soured things. Her hand once more races to the depths of her pocket, digging for the small box out of self-soothing habit. Holding it and its roughened, gilded corners calms Corrin. It’s her anchor against the stormy sea of change, and she’s not at all surprised that she finds it in a trinket meant for someone else — for Xander, specifically.

“Um, there’s something I—”

“Have you kept up—”

They start and stop as Corrin’s wince matches Xander’s more understanding smile. “You go first,” she insists, flattening her clammy palms on her skirt lest her fidgeting becomes more of a distraction.

“I was going to ask — have you kept up with your training?”

“Training?”

“Yes, I must admit… I myself haven’t had much time for it.”

 _‘_ Sword _Training?’_ She is still baffled, stuck on the seemingly random tangent he’s brought on her.

He takes a second to read the confusion on her face. “Hmph,” he makes _a_ noise, and Corrin isn’t sure if it’s a slight grunt of disappointment or a coaxing attempt to draw out her answer.

“I— um well, not as much as I would like,” she answers somewhat sheepishly.

“Know this, Corrin,” he begins, lowering his voice for a sterner tone, “peace isn’t an excuse to forget your training. Someday there will be a new threat to your kingdom, and you must be ready to defend it.”

“Y-yes!” Corrin’s posture grows rigid, falling back on unforgotten habits. It’s not that she’s afraid, and it’s not like she’s still overeager to please the man she’s admired for so long. After all, they’re equals now, in every sense of the word. Yet she still has difficulty shaking off the stubborn lessons of her childhood: that one shouldn’t dilly-dally when it comes to Xander. His word may not be law, but it is a firm and solid foundation, and she would be foolish to ignore it.

Without skipping a beat, Xander rises and gestures her forward.

“Come,” he commands (an action so natural to him, Corrin can’t help but look up in awe), “for old times’ sake… train with me.”

In hindsight, Corrin should have known that this request — this _order_ — is a bit odd. Later that night, she will think back and realize that he meant something else altogether. For now, she is lost in the rush of reliving old glory days. Xander goes ahead of her, and Corrin falls into step slightly behind him. Somehow, walking in _this_ particular spot, slightly behind his shoulder, feels more familiar than anything she’s seen in Clarkenstein.

* * *

Somehow, the sound of snow crunching beneath her feet feels a bit more like home than the hearth and fire of Clarkenstein’s halls. Although the weather itself is sunny and fair, a thick sheet of snow covers the palace grounds, making for a wintry scene that not even the wondrous chasms of Valla can replicate.

“Focus!”

Xander’s broadsword cuts literally through her thoughts, and Corrin steps aside in time for a narrow dodge. Her mouth hangs open when she hears the blade slice clean through the snow, piercing the cold, hardened ground. She takes a moment to recover, staring at him incredulously through the iced fog of her breath.

“You can’t be serious!” Corrin gestures frantically at her clothing — still the holiday smock wrapped in fur capelet. “I’m not dressed for this!”

“I’ve seen you do more in worse conditions,” he retorts, raising his sword once more to urge her into another fighting stance. “Now, come at me, and don’t hold back!”

She doesn’t need to be told twice. Her fingers coil for a tighter grip on the hilt of her sword, completely unfazed by the chill prickling her skin. With a graceful leap forward, she lands an overhead attack, forcing Xander to parry.

“Good.” As ever, Xander’s praise is as subdued as his manner, and it baffles her that even after all this time — after everything _she’s_ been through — he reads her movements like a book. He deflects effortlessly, and his blade juts out in riposte with the same ease.

Corrin draws back defensively, panting through her discomfort. A part of her wants to protest against such a ridiculous setup for training. Snow-covered ground, festive smock for armor, and lack of practice are as abysmal as conditions can get. “B-brother!” she splutters, completely flush with the frenzied adrenaline coursing through her veins, “can we take a break?” She takes a second to swallow back the parched itch in her throat and lowers her sword. “I’m out of practice,” she says more timidly, her eyes scrunching shut now that she has confirmed what he could have probably guessed the moment they drew swords.

Yet to her surprise, Xander has no stern remark for the occasion. He relaxes his guard, softening his expression with a more sympathetic smile.

“Corrin...” Like his sword, his tone cuts to the chase. “What’s bothering you?”

She blinks back in surprise. It isn’t at all like Xander to ask about one’s feelings so directly. “What do you mean?” She isn’t _trying_ to deflect conversation. It’s not exactly like her to be so evasive when it comes to her own feelings, but the question jumps out anyway, with the instinct to put up a shield kicking in strong now that she’s feeling vulnerable.

“Earlier… you said you were worried that ‘things might be different now,’” he recalls for her. Xander lowers his sword to his side, fixing a crestfallen gaze on the snow beneath his boots. “In what way?”

“I… um…” she hems and haws, withdrawing into a proverbial shell as she tenses up into a stammering fit. _Of course_ he can see right through her. Why does that surprise her? For so long, she’d been used to watching him from afar, studying his movements — every crease and wrinkle of his expressions. It never occurs to her that he can gaze back, studying _her_ in the short amount of time she’s been in Nohr.

Her hands dig back into her pockets, feeling for the trinket box to calm her thrashing heart. She reminds herself to breathe and to gather her thoughts. “If it’s okay with you,” she starts up, her voice almost a mousy whisper, “I would like to keep training.” A downtrodden expression takes over, and Corrin raises her sword again, albeit reluctantly.

Xander takes a few moments to observe her, torn between his mild astonishment at her reticence and his impulse to withdraw from a fight he’s not sure he can win. “Very well,” he decides. For now, he lifts his sword, ready to let their weapons talk if she isn’t willing. Before long the two clash their blades, and they spar once more in earnest.

Long seconds pass this way, with nothing but the clamor of steel against steel to fill the silence between them. At times, an unexpected thump would disrupt the rhythm of their swordplay as Xander manages to break Corrin’s stance, sending her flat on her back against the puffy pillow of snow on the ground.

By the third time it happens, Corrin lets out an audibly disgruntled _‘oof!’_ when an unperceived rock strikes her tailbone.

“You can go easier on me, you know,” she says, wincing at the sky. Corrin makes no effort to get up, seeing as how the bed of undriven snow is a bit more preferable to his unrestrained blows.

Xander chuckles softly to himself, approaching her with a ready reprimand, “I _am_ going easy on you.”

The insult _should_ sting, but Corrin instead takes it in stride. She giggles, letting go of her sword to hug herself now that the snow has gotten too cold.

“Come on, get up.” He bends his knees and offers her his hand.

It is so like him, Corrin muses, to insist that she keep picking herself up after a fall. Staring back at him, she observes the stoic lines of age and patience like hardened grooves on his countenance. The years might have been hard on him, but he bears the brunt of their weight with subdued regality. His taut scowl and his furrowed brows seem fitting for the stubborn softness of his eyes — a dark red which shines with tantalizing depth. Xander is handsome, and she’s always known that, but she never quite noticed how much of it stems from the quiet ways in which he embraces the hard-worn years so readily detectable in his features.

Her heart squeezes in her chest, overcome with the yearning to soothe those lines with her own hands.

Xander, for his part, grows self-conscious of her staring. “Get up, Corrin,” he repeats, looking peeved, “you’ll catch a cold.

“You’re right,” she sighs, grabbing his hand. With no effort at all, he lifts her from the ground. Tufts of snow fall off from her clothes as she pats down the fabric, and her hair, which was neatly coiffed, drags heavy with newfound knots given her tumbles.

Xander allows her a few moments to gather herself before looking her squarely in the eyes and asking, “What’s wrong?”

The question jumps out precisely when she least expects it, and all Corrin can do in defense is blink back while she hems and haws for an answer.

Xander frowns at her, not because he is displeased or disappointed, but because it truly _is_ unlike her to beat around the proverbial bush. And unfortunately for her, he’s nowhere near half as patient as she is, opting instead to go blow for blow than to waste time laying in the snow.

“During the war,” he begins, offering to come to her rescue since she clearly needs it, “you once told me you’ll stay with me… as long as I need.”

“I—… you remember.”

“Of course I do.” His tone is clipped, almost as if he’s offended that she would doubt him, but just as she flashes him a sullen pout, he quickly assuages her fears (with a wry smirk and an unrelenting gaze) and adds, “Those nights… training together, I’ll always remember them.” His face softens just then, as his tone tapers down to a murmur, “that’s why even in times of peace, you should practice your swordplay. It’ll remind you of the time we had together.”

 _‘Had.’_ For all that he’s given her — all that he still gives to help her — Corrin can’t help but allow herself this one last indulgence; this brazen disappointment in his implication that their time together is over.

An itch burns her throat, like a sob gnawing to get out, but Corrin stifles it. She sniffles and covers it with a halfhearted sneeze, quick to blame the chilly air for a cold she clearly doesn’t have. “Thank you,” she manages, trying to be strong so as to not burden him any longer.

“Now, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Corrin glances up, completely disarmed that he truly is pushing the matter. He fixes her a stern scowl when she tries to argue to no avail, and at that point she figures that there’s on longer any point to feints and deflections.

“I have something,” she announces, leaving off with an exasperated sigh as she steels herself. For what she hopes will be the last time, Corrin digs into her pocket and unearths (finally) the trinket box she’s carried since leaving Valla. “It’s for you,” she explains, handing him the box with both hands.

Xander starts and stops, his mouth hanging open from this sudden turn of events. “For me?”

“Yes, for you, please take it.”

Despite her encouragement, he delays another second before gently picking it up from the palm of her hand. The box rolls to the center of his gloved palm, and he shoots her one more timid glance before deciding to open it.

“What is it?”

Corrin smiles, not at all surprised by his stubbornness. Perhaps _some_ things will never change, least of all Xander’s bad habit of refusing to believe any little good thing that happens to him.

“Xander,” she sighs out affectionately, suppressing giggles all the while, “you’ll have to see it for yourself.”

He unlatches the lock and snaps it open. There, in the middle of some cushion, shone a golden brooch with bands of black satin tapered over. Around it, white gold trimmings are gilded along its edges, shining from the glaring sunlight. “This is…”

“It’s the brooch from my headband,” Corrin says, reading in his expression the weight of her revelation, “I don’t wear it much anymore… since I have a different headpiece now.” She watches him closely, gulping back her nerves in the absence of his reaction.

“I gave this to you,” he says, still stunned.

Deep down, she knows this isn’t exactly the most festive ‘present’ one can give, but it is one that only _she_ can give. If things are supposed to be different now, then the least she can do is leave him with some piece of the past to cling to, however painful or full of regret it might be.

But his silence is too heavy; it’s too long. Seconds fly them by while Xander stares with a deadened glaze of his eyes at the one thing he never expected to receive from her.

“I’m sorry,” she pipes up, her voice shaky now that she knows she only reopened, rather than, closing wounds. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Keep it,” he interjects, inching closer as the surprise in his eyes fades into something a little sadder. He gently lays the brooch back into her palm and folds his hand over hers, as if for safekeeping. “It’ll remind you of us when you’re in Valla.”

“Xander…”

“You’re right. Things are different now,” he continues, “but the bonds you made while you were here… They’re precious memories. Keep them safe.”

“But now I have nothing to give you,” she quips, her voice shaky with laughter and tears. She’s crying, and she doesn’t realize it.

To that he gives a low and subdued chuckle — the sort where nothing but a wry grin shows his amusement. “You've given me plenty. For one, you’re the first person to let me spar with them since the war ended.” He gives a low and audible _hmph,_ amused by his own joke, but it vanishes almost immediately when, letting go of her hand, he digs into his own pocket and says, “… But I suppose I should give you your present too.”

Corrin’s heart stops. “E-eh?” the awkward sound sputters out, and the waterworks stop the moment she breathes in her last sniffle. “Present?”

“I meant to give it to you later this evening, but since you gave me yours…”

This time he drops a box in her hand, almost as large as the trinket she had planned on giving him. The box, however, is light and covered with red velvet. Corrin wastes no time with her confusion, opting instead to frantically unwrap the box.

“This is…”

“It belonged to my mother.” As if _that_ explains it. Corrin gasps when she picks it up with dainty fingers: a silver band decorated with a pattern of vines and rose petals. Couched in the center of the silver foliage is a diamond. Her mouth hangs open admiring its size, and she’s nearly blinded when she angles the ring and catches the diamond's opalescent sheen.

“If you thought that being Queen of Valla meant you are no longer part of this family, you are wrong,” he says suddenly. From the corner of her eye, Corrin swears she can glimpse a satisfied smile on his face. “There are other ways to be family. One of them,” he pauses, waiting for her to meet his gaze, “is through marriage.”

 _Marriage._ What a word. Corrin nearly stops breathing because of it.

“Marriage?” she parrots back, totally thrown off. The questions flood in her mind, and clinging to his hands (since when did he grab hold of her hands?) is all she can do to keep herself afoot.

Xander’s wry smile softens to something tender, and seeing as how she’s too shocked to put two and two together, he thinks to try for her.

“These months apart have taught me something,” he says, opening up her shivering fingers with his while his other hand holds onto the ring. “For as long as I live, I want to protect you.” He stops to concentrate on the more delicate issue at hand: the ring he so gently slides onto her lithe finger. “‘Stay by my side,’ that’s what you told me. Will you stay now — not as my sister, but as my wife?”

Corrin is shaking. Tears are streaming unbidden from her eyes, stinging her chilled cheeks as she stares in complete and utter shock at the ring now on her finger.

“Corrin,” he tries again when she doesn’t answer, “will you marry me?”

“I—… I’m so happy I don’t know what to say.” She blinks once or twice, coughing and laughing through tears that are halfway between subsiding regret and ostensible joy. “Wait… Is _this_ why you wanted me to spar with you?!”

Again, Xander gives that low, self-satisfied laugh that sounds more like an approving _hmph_. “I can have more than one reason.”

Corrin stifles a gasp with her hand, giggling as she reddens from the silliness of it all. “You didn’t have to do that, you know? I would have said ‘yes’ anywhere!” Her whole body quivers with emphasis, like a passive aggressive hint at his rather poor choice for a stage.

It’s not quite the answer Xander expects, but it’ll do. He pinches her chin with his hands, tilting it upward so she can face him. “Then say yes to me now,” he commands, and before she can warn him about getting too used to bossing her around, he leans in and presses his advantage. Corrin gives a slight yelp of surprise when she feels his mouth close in on hers, but his tantalizing warmth is enough to make her forget any pretense of a protest. With a breathy moan, she beckons him closer, and he deepens the kiss with a hand draped lovingly over her waist.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written as part of the Fatesmas 2020 Secret Santa Exchange for artist and Twitter User @/Nillaps. Thank you so much for being part of this magical celebration of Fates!


End file.
